


the holy or the broken

by Anonymous



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Blindfolds, Bondage, Dubious Consent, Haircuts, M/M, Safewords, Shaving, who would win: one feisty sub or two flippant doms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-15
Updated: 2018-05-15
Packaged: 2019-05-07 05:36:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14664396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: “He’s ready,” Alex calls, and Matt hears footsteps from the hallway, but no voice. He can feel it, someone in front of him. Another pair of hands, huge and warm, settles on his jaw. A moment later, he can feel their breath on his face.





	the holy or the broken

**Author's Note:**

> There is a third character in this that I chose not to tag for spoilers, but I promise you he has done nothing objectionable to the fandom except being horrendously beautiful.
> 
> Inspired by the infamous Kings-Flames rivalry and Matthew Tkachuk's horrible hair this season. If you think it couldn't be that bad, check instagram please.
> 
> Though the scene is not pre-negotiated, and the sub does not know the second dom, there are safewords present and a clear option to stop the scene at any point.
> 
> Title from Hallelujah by Leonard Cohen; this is basically 2k of "She tied you to her kitchen chair...."

“You really just need to like, settle the  _ fuck  _ down,” Alex remarks. He crushes the water bottle he was holding, tossing it into the garbage across the room.  Matt leans back against the cabinets of Alex’s kitchen.

 

“Stop telling me what to do.”

 

“You’re a fucking sub. That’s how you work.”

 

Matt huffs. Alex pulls over one of the apartment dining room chairs, and slides open one of the drawers near the countertop. “Hold still,” Alex says, voice soft as he shoves Matt backwards and into the chair, his back rebounding a little with a thump. Matt scowls at him. Out of the drawer comes a length of rope, jet black and well-worn, and a set of leather handcuffs and ties.

 

“You wouldn’t,” Matt counters, but his voice is dry, barely there. Alex raises an eyebrow and steps forward, pointedly glancing at the hem of Matt’s undershirt. Matt pulls it off, handing it over. He figures it’s better than fighting, right now.

 

Alex works methodically, the pendant light in the kitchen illuminating his features. He secures Matt’s wrists behind his back, tying the handcuffs to the chair, then running the rope around both chair legs, cuffing Matt’s ankles. Matt’s breath goes short when Alex stands and slides two fingers under Matt’s chin, tipping it up. “Test them,” he says simply, and Matt strains. He’s immobile. The rope cuts into his joints with a pleasant pressure.

 

“Good,” Alex soothes. Matt doesn’t have much experience with people who carry different voices when they dom past like, Auston and Luke and Mitch, and it’s a little eerie, but it gets his pulse up and settles him into his body. 

 

Alex steps behind him quickly, something smooth in his hands, and then Matt’s entire world goes dark, cool satin against his forehead. 

 

“Fuck,” Matt croaks. Alex puts his hands on Matt’s shoulders.

 

“He’s ready,” Alex calls, and Matt hears footsteps from the hallway, but no voice. He can feel it, someone in front of him. They’re carrying something that clinks slightly as they step, and the footfalls sound like they’re heavy. Another pair of hands, huge and warm, settles on his jaw. A moment later, he can feel their breath on his face. 

 

“Red to stop,” Alex adds, and then he’s stepping away from Matt, his hands gone on Matt’s shoulders. “I’m here, watching. Be good.”

 

The second set of hands placed on his body moves down Matt’s chest, over his stomach, and he pushes into the pressure, heart racing. 

 

“Ah,” he manages, soft, as the hands push his hips back down, pinning him to the smooth wood of the chair. 

 

“Stay still,” the person says – the voice sounds male, but he can’t place it, hasn’t heard it enough for it to be familiar – and then they’re climbing into his lap, bracing a hand on his cheek, tilting his head. 

 

When Alex initially pulled out the chair, he placed it close enough to the counter, parallel to it, but Matt didn’t really think any of it. Now, there’s a shuffling of plastic and metal, and Matt thinks he should’ve paid more attention. 

 

He’s finding it harder to think, the more the man’s hand traces over his jawline.

 

It’s been too long since someone put Matt under. 

 

Weeks? Months? 

 

Strome fought him until they were both bruised enough for his hands on Matt’s hips to be painful. But that was like, October? November?

 

“Stop thinking so much,” Alex’s voice floats from across the room, and the man in Matt’s lap places his palm on Matt’s stomach, teasing just a bit lower before skimming back up, over the dusting of hair on his chest.

 

“This is pretty,” the man whispers, taking Matt’s crucifix necklace between his fingers, tugging just enough on the chain that Matt knows what he’s doing, reaching off for something on the counter. “You wanna keep it on?”

 

Matt whines.

 

“We’ll keep it on for now,” he laughs under his breath. “I’m not even sure why I asked.”

 

Before Matt can open his mouth again, the man’s other hand smears some kind of foam over Matt’s cheeks and chin. It’s precise, the way he lays it down, rubbing in small circles. 

 

“You were loved in London, huh?” Alex mutters. The silence feels humid. Matt’s sweating a little, shivering. “Didn’t even take care of yourself. Had Mitch and Fish to do it for you.”

 

Matt’s eyes prick with tears.

 

“Answer me.”

 

The hands on his cheek stop moving. A wet washcloth brushes his stomach. 

 

“Yeah,” Matt whispers, slumping forward. “Yeah, they did.”

 

The next touch to his skin is cold - a razor. Okay, it  _ was  _ shaving cream. In two smooth strokes, most of his sideburns are gone. Next is a swirling sound, the razor being cleaned, and then it’s back, skimming his cheek and over his jaw. His breath seems to stop as the person in his lap shaves him deftly, no-nonsense, just quick enough that he’s afraid moving even a millimeter will mess it up.

 

“Breathe,” the man says after the next few strokes. His voice sounds young. He can’t be older than mid-twenties. The right side of Matt’s face feels bare, cool to the open air of the room. His stomach feels warm, and he’s starting to get hard against his stomach, an afterthought to the sensation of the razor. The man – boy? – laughs a little, brushing Matt’s dick softly with his hand and squeezing. “Keep being good, and we’ll get to that.”

 

Matt exhales, heavy. The voice lulls him with instructions to tuck his lips in, tilt his head back or forward as they work. Matt’s brain feels fuzzy, pleasantly slow, all the lines of the razor blurring into one. Matt’s dead still, even as he’s boneless, and the man works expertly, never nicking his skin once. It seems to be over all too soon, the wet washcloth from before rubbing slowly across his face, wiping the last of the shaving cream away. 

 

“Good boy,” he says, and Matt’s stomach drops like a stone as calloused hands run over his cheeks. Matt’s so sensitive. The touch feels intimate on his newly bare skin, too much and not nearly enough, short circuiting his brain. He moans, and the man follows with a kiss to his cheek, long hair brushing Matt’s jaw as he leans in. Alex hums happily across the room. The man’s hand guides him until their mouths meet, and then he’s kissing Matt, authoritative and gentle, sucking gently on Matt’s bottom lip and tongue. Matt pushes back lazily, bares his throat and lets the man bite down, suck marks onto his neck and below his ear. Matt’s fully hard now, aching to be touched in the way he needs.

 

“We’re not done,” Alex murmurs, and as if against his will, Matt’s eyes get wet with tears, rolling over and down his cheeks. 

 

“Please,” Matt whispers, voice hoarse from disuse. “I want it.”

 

“Not yet.”

 

The hands are back, and Alex’s footsteps echo as he walks to the what must be the sink, by the running water sounds. He switches it off after a moment. Matt jumps a bit when Alex’s hands card through his hair, taming the curls, dripping water over his head, and – oh.

 

“Color?” Alex prompts, pressing on his temples. 

 

Matt inhales, harsh. “Yellow.”

 

“Ask,” the other man says.

 

“Are you going to cut my hair?”

 

“Yes,” Alex responds, and Matt’s eyes well up all over again. “Color?”

 

“Green.” 

 

“Keep your eyes closed,” Alex says, and then the blindfold slides smoothly down Matt’s face, sitting loosely around his neck. He wants so badly to open his eyes, but – they’ve been good to him. Matt owes them this. 

 

After Alex finishes wetting Matt’s hair, his damp hands slide down Matt’s neck, pressing his shoulders down. “Relax,” Alex soothes, gravelly. Matt shudders out a breath, and then there’s a set of hands in his hair, a slight tug, and a muffled snip close to his forehead. 

 

“There,” Alex affirms, and the hands in his hair comb a section, lifting it to measure against the shorter one, snipping again. It’s methodical, repetitive. Matt can hear the scissors in different places around his head as the man works. 

 

“Don’t shave his sides,” Alex adds. “They’re already short enough.”

 

“I know,” the other man says, and runs his hands through Matt’s curls to assess his progress, tugs a little to draw a moan out of Matt. “I’m going to get this blended a bit.”

He drops his grip on Matt’s hair, piecing at one side of the strands, trimming a little more. The other side gets the same attention, and as he keeps working, Matt’s spacing out, distantly aware of the hum of the air conditioning and the burn where the rope’s around his ankles. How much time passes, he isn’t sure, but eventually Alex crosses the room and presses his hands gently against Matt’s shoulders, standing behind him. The other set of hands runs through his hair one more time, and the man hums, pleased. With a clink he places the scissors back on the counter, and Matt’s holding his breath at what must come next.

 

“You look much better,” the voice says, running a hand over Matt’s jaw. Matt pushes into it, barely self conscious, and another hand wraps around his dick. It’s fucked up, that he’s just letting someone he doesn’t even know jerk him off, but the hands are strong and the touch is perfectly soft. “You did so well.”

 

Matt sobs, eyes still closed, unable to make a sound. Alex’s hands slide over his nipples, twisting them lightly, and his back arches against his bonds. The hand on his dick moves away, and then the pressure changes, and he’s not sure whose hands are whose, Alex’s or the mystery man’s. 

 

“Mitch wasn’t kidding,” Alex says quietly. “You do love to be shared.”

 

“Fuck,” Matt manages, and then the other man is kissing the curses right out of his mouth. He’s got a bit of stubble against Matt’s jaw, as he leans in, lips plush, tongue pliantly guiding Matt along. It’s too much, and Matt should be more embarrassed that he can’t last, but someone thumbs at the head of his cock and he’s coming, as if he has no say in it, legs shaking, orgasm wrung from his body. 

 

“Beautiful,” Alex mutters as the man kissing Matt pulls away. His breath is hot on Matt’s cheek. One of them strokes Matt’s hipbone, tender. “I’m going to give you an option, as you come back up.”

 

There’s a beat of silence. The man Matt doesn’t know climbs into his lap, wiping the jizz off his stomach and tossing the cloth on the floor, resting a hand on Matt’s waist. His grip isn’t tight, but it’s grounding, and Matt sighs, tries to get himself to speak. “Yeah?”

 

“Do you want to see who the other person taking care of you was?”

 

_ Fuck.  _ Does he? Long inhale, shuddering exhale. Matt considers it for a second, coming a little more back into the headspace that feels like home.

 

After a moment, he nods. His stomach feels molten hot, every nerve in his body on edge. The hand on his waist squeezes. 

 

“Open your eyes.”

 

As Matt’s eyes focus to the dim light of the kitchen, he first recognizes blonde hair, then a shoulder with swirling florals tattooed in delicate designs that extend all the way down his arm. 

 

“Hi,” the man says softly, and Matt would know him  _ anywhere _ after the smirk he’d given Matt before checking him into the boards. “I don’t think we’ve formally met.”

 

“Adrian,” Matt says. It sounds far off, a little dazed.

 

“Yeah, that’s me.” Adrian smiles, strokes his cheek. “You did great.”

 

The  _ thanks  _ gets caught in Matt’s throat. He smiles instead. “You’re a good kisser,” Adrian adds, and Matt must look desperate enough, because the next thing Adrian does is lean back down and seal their lips together. Matt wants to tug Adrian’s hair. His hands are still bound, and he curses in frustration.

 

“One second,” Alex says, recognizing the problem, and in no time at all, the ropes around Matt’s wrists are loose enough for him to relax and slide his hands back out. Matt touches Adrian’s shoulder, his pecs, his hair, the ridge of his brow, frantic in his slowness, trying to feel everywhere he can reach. 

 

“Good,” Adrian murmurs, and Matt’s chest feels heavy, light, all at once. Adrian’s sweats are soft where Matt reaches for his ass. His skin is softer in the crease of his neck where Matt buries his face. “I got you.”

 

Alex traces through Matt’s hair, guiding Matt to look at his reflection in the glass on the oven door, and it’s - shorter, for sure. Cropped back to how it was on draft day, but with a sharper line between the top of his head and the side. Kind of like Jack’s.

 

“I liked your summer hair,” Alex explains. “Let the sides grow, get it soft like that again. I don’t know why you let yourself go like that.”

 

Matt doesn’t know either.

 

He can’t even claim rookie anxiety as an excuse. 

 

“I’m sorry,” Matt manages.

 

“It’s okay. You needed someone to look after you,” Adrian cuts in. His fingertips feel amazing dragging across Matt’s cheeks.

 

Matt exhales, shuddering. 

 

“You can stay here, if you want, or I’m happy to drive you back to your hotel,” Alex says quietly. “Let me know. I’m going to clean up for now.”

 

“Okay,” Matt manages as Alex smooths over the top of his head and leaves the kitchen. Adrian climbs into his lap, holding him tightly.

 

“Bra jobbat,” Adrian whispers, and Matt can practically imagine the crowns of Los Angeles and Sweden’s home jerseys perched on his head. “Good job, Matt. Thank you.”

 

Inhale. Hold. Exhale.

 

“Thanks to you too,” Matt mutters in response, and Adrian kisses his neck.


End file.
